


Oh Marcy

by whatsacleverusername



Series: Franklin Huddie Alan [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Drug Use, Electrocution, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Gore, Leopold is important, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Swearing, Torture, and slavery, by important i mean he'll reappear in other stories, i still don't know how to tag this shit whoops, it's very brief but gruesome, kind of, lots of raiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 15:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17246786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername





	1. Chapter 1

Staring off into the distance, the sand glimmering under the desert sun, Frank leaned his elbows on the porch railing. The settlement was small, but it had a bar. That’s all he ever needed to look for. Easy money, better than trying to rob every unsuspecting fool going through. Especially since everyone seemed to be on edge, even the kids. He can always judge the danger in the area by the behavior of the children. Doesn’t mean it sat well with him. Kids shouldn’t have to be afraid of anything, except maybe the dark and bugs.

Drawing him out of his thoughts, one of the bar workers tapped him on the shoulder, asking, “are ya gonna buy somethin’ or stand there all day?”

Turning his head to glare at the worker, Frank jeered, “I dunno, the fencing here is pretty nice. Might have to admire it for a few hours more.”

Having not been able to see Frank’s face due to the flap on his desert cap, the worker’s expression dropped in shock as Frank turned to him, his shoulders hunching up in fear.

“S-Sorry, sir, I didn’t-” he stuttered. “I- I’m sorry.”

Huffing as the worker retreated back into the bar, Frank took a drag on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through the cavity where his nose should be. He absentmindedly pulled his accordion closer to him with a boot, put off by the unnecessary fear. Hopefully this isn’t another of _those_ settlements. He’d been walking for weeks now, he’d at least like a night without prejudice. Ultimately, though, he knew better than to hold his breath. At least the music and the money never gave him shit for his skin. Looking off at the setting sun, he turned around to head into the lion’s den, armed with naught but skin like iron and a squeezebox nearly as old as him.

 

Waving to the cheering crowd of thoroughly wasted bar goers with a slight smile, Frank excused himself from the stage, picking up the accordion case and carrying it on his shoulder off to one of the empty tables towards the back of the bar. Removing the strap from the accordion and laying both in the case, he sighed and took a drink from the bottle on the table, sitting to watch the crowd. He was mildly startled when a hand placed itself on his shoulder, having seen no one break away from the crowd. He looked back to find _three_ people there, one of them smiling at him, moving his hand from his shoulder to hold out in salutations.

“Sorry if I started you,” he said, his moustache moving and accentuating his words.

“Uh… You're- You're fine,” Frank said hesitantly, looking at the man's face then hand before shaking it.

“Just wanted to say my brothers and I enjoyed the show,” he continued. “You're prewar, aren't you?”

“Yeah…?” Frank asked. “Why?”

“Just wondering, haven't never heard any of those songs you were playing,” he said. “Guess that means you didn't always sound like that.”

“Depends on whatcha mean by ‘always,’” Frank shrugged. “I been like this since I was 26, damn near an eighth of my life.”

Whistling, the man said, “that's a mighty long time.” Pausing for a second, he asked, “say, how'd you like to sound like you used to?”

“What?” Frank asked, wide eyed. “You can do that?”

“We're trying to,” the man explained. “We've been working on a piece of technology that reverses the effect of the radiation on a ghoul's voice. Ever notice how some of them sound like normal people?”

“Now that ya mention it…” Frank agreed with a nod.

“That's not fair,” the man stated. “Here, walk with me while we talk.”

Getting up and following the man, Frank grabbed his accordion and followed them through a back door. Normally he wouldn't be caught dead walking with strangers, much less trusting one enough to shake his hand, but once he took that last swig… Everything felt a lot less dangerous, like there was no death option in the game. He gladly went with them down the road, farther and farther away from the bar. It took a startlingly long time before he noticed something was off.

“So, uh…” Frank asked. “Is… Is the thing nearby?”

“What?” the man asked, looking at him in confusion for a second. “Oh- Oh, right! Joseph, if you could.”

Removing a band from his coat, another man held it out to the first, who gestured for Frank to walk closer. Removing his hat to put the band around the ghoul's neck, the man smiled at him before continuing to walk.

“So how does this-” Frank asked, but stopped at the sound of his voice. “Wait, it- Nothin’ changed!”

“I know,” the man said plainly, nodding to the others.

“Is it- Are you shittin’ me?” Frank asked.

“Make it quick, and _clean_ ,” the man said, ignoring him. “I think the boss will want to keep this one.”

“What are you-” Frank tried to ask, but was promptly hit with something from behind, an arm wrapping around his neck before he hit the ground.

He struggled for a long moment, trying to reach his gun only to find it missing from its holster. He clawed at the arm crushing his windpipe, fighting to breathe, flailing legs kicking up sand everywhere. He finally blacked out after a few minutes, everything going as cold as the desert night.

 

Frank woke again with a start, the sound of metal clanging chilling him to the bone. He hardly had a moment to take in his surroundings before he began to fall, quickly colliding with cold ground. He looked around in fear, seeing many faces with expressions similar to his. Around each and every ghoul's neck is a metal collar with one bright red light, one of which he assumed was around his as well. Shivering under the relentless gazes of so many strangers, prisoners or whatever they were, Frank was even more terrified of the words a sudden voice said.

“Take care of our new friend,” the voice cooed in a disgusting low voice. “This one's a musician. You're gonna have to work extra hard to compete with him.”

If ghouls could pale, Frank was sure he would've as many of the looks turned to leers, leading him to back into the corner of the cell. The people scared him more than the metal bars around him, some grumbling and whispering to one another. He can only hope none of them decide to really take the voice's words into consideration.


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you see ‘em?” the stern faced ghoul whispered, looking off at the dimly illuminated windows.

“Just barely,” the woman with the binoculars replied. “It's not the most well lit place.”

Grumbling in agreement, the ghoul stood up and walked away from the ledge, towards the small camp hidden behind the large rock. Lifting the flap of the small tent up, he ducked inside and nodded to the other ghoul on the bench.

“How's he holding up?” he asked the doctor wrapping the younger ghoul's arm.

“Well, _Roland_ ,” the doctor sneered, “he would be doing better if I had proper supplies to dress bullet wounds. Clothing doesn't really work as well, and only diminishes what we have available.”

“Hey, bring that up with Malachy,” the tall ghoul, Roland, objected. “He's the one that volunteered to look for supplies.”

Huffing, the doctor muttered, “I'd hardly call it _volunteering_.”

“Whatever,” Roland sighed.

“Did Marcy locate the prisoners yet?” the doctor asked, choosing to ignore Roland's sarcasm.

“Why don't you ask her yourself,” Roland suggested, holding up the tent flap.

“Leopold,” Marcy said, walking under Roland's arm into the tent. “We're going to need to set aside some stimpaks, and probably addictol. I spotted some syringes scattered around the place.”

Sighing, the old ghoul tied off the makeshift bandage and helped the younger up, guiding him towards the flap and saying, “I'm afraid we're alarmingly short on both, my dear. We'll be hard pressed to find the latter, especially if Malachy doesn't reappear soon.”

“Do you have what you need to make stims at least?” Marcy asked.

“I'm afraid I've used most of our antiseptics treating this last round of bullet spray,” Leopold frowned.

Grimacing, Marcy nodded in acknowledgment, turning back around and saying, “I'll send Blade out to search that hospital again.”

Shaking his head, Leopold went about organizing the bench and supplies as Roland followed Marcy out. The younger ghoul, Jude, attempted to follow them, but stopped when Roland shook his head at him. Climbing back up the rock face, Roland offering to help Marcy despite knowing her immediate answer, they returned to watching the all but abandoned building. They'd have to figure something out, and soon.

 

Nodding to one of the men in bloodstained clothes, Marcy lead Roland down the hall, keeping a safe distance from him as to not arouse suspicion. Evidently not close enough to keep him from snapping at another passerby that bumped into her.

“Watch where the fuck you're goin’,” he snarled, puffing up like an angry rooster.

Despite being obviously terrified of the ghoul at least three times his size, the man turned to Marcy and said, “y’might want to learn yer pet there some manners, ma'am.”

“Right,” Marcy agreed with a forced smile, hurrying Roland down the hall. “I don't know what came over him.”

Sneering at Roland as he let Marcy lead him away, the man paled and ran in the opposite direction when the ghoul curled his lip with a glare. He always found it entertaining how quick they were to turn tail and run.

“What the hell was that?” Marcy asked, pulling Roland aside once they were out of the hall.

“Didn't like the way he was looking at you,” he answered simply.

Sighing and smoothing her hair down with a hand, she said, “I know, but these guys seem to be especially testy. The over zealous bodyguard schtick won't slip by for long here.”

“That's my _only_ schtick,” Roland argued, a slight smirk betraying his serious tone.

Scoffing, Marcy playfully pushed him away and began walking through the room. Roland caught her hand and gently pulled her back, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Come on,” she said, pushing him back lightly. “We have to at least _pretend_ to be taking this seriously.”

“Oh, I am,” he affirmed, still smirking.

“Then could you play your part as a miserable slave?” she asked.

“Sorry, I'm not into that,” he teased. Conceding with a look from Marcy, he said, “fine, fine.”

Opening her mouth to continue chiding Roland, Marcy instead gasped slightly at what was waiting for them past the doors. Several heads swiveling around on necks adorned with metal collars, every ghoul behind the metal bars lining the room froze and stared at the two strangers. None of them made a sound, but the looks on their faces told the two all they needed to know. Backing away, Marcy was startled when she ran into someone, who cleared their throat to get her to turn around.

Standing nearly as tall as Roland, the tattooed man asked, “can I help you with somethin’?”

“Oh- Yes,” Marcy said, stepping back and running into Roland purposefully to keep him from snapping. “I was looking for Wrought Iron, the man in charge of the slaves here? I must have been given wrong directions, I'm terribly-”

“Well, lucky you,” the man said with a grin. “You're lookin’ at ‘im. Any kind you're lookin’ for in particular?”

“Not necessarily,” she replied. “Maybe it would be best if I could survey them all first.”

“Right this way then,” Wrought Iron said, gesturing for her to go ahead. Walking in behind them, he added, “I'm sure you'll find somethin’ to yer likin’.”

He walked them down the room, detailing to painful extent the treatment and methods of seizing each and every ghoul they passed. Marcy forced herself to pay more attention to the build of the cells and the security measures, trying to ignore the disgusting accounts of druggings, beatings, and all manner of horrible crimes. She almost managed to get through the entire room without paying attention, until a loud metal bang startled even the massive slaver leading them along.

“Goddammit, where's the fuckin’ clicker?!” came a loud shout, followed by another loud bang.

“He has it!” another voice replied, sounding strained as if injured.

Nearly running into them, a short ghoul wearing nothing more than tattered pants, a scar over the left side of his lips pulling his sneer, sprinted towards the door, evading Wrought Iron by sliding under him. In the process, a remote fell from his bandaged fingers, which Wrought Iron quickly snatched up. Pressing the button without hesitation, he watched as the ghoul screamed and writhed on the floor, the collar around his neck beeping and sparking.

Once the collar shut off again, Wrought Iron picked the ghoul up by his arm, locking eyes with the limp thing and saying, “ya keep screamin’ like that, you won't be able to put on your little show tonight.”

Slinging the ghoul over his shoulder, who wheezed slightly on impact with the metal plating, Wrought Iron walked towards the gathering slavers, smacking one before handing him the remote. He told one of them to take the pair to the “conference room,” the man in question quickly hurrying to follow through. As they were lead away from the room and towards a set of stairs, Marcy and Roland heard shouting and yelling proceeding another round of agonized screams, the pair only able to grimace at the sound for fear of seeming suspicious.

 

“Have you made yer pick?” the rat like slaver asked, leaning back in the nasty old office chair.

“I think so,” Marcy nods, holding a hand out for Roland to hand her a large bag of caps, the slaver eyeing it keenly. “I’d like the one with the scar, the one we saw just now.”

Looking at her quizzically for a moment, the slaver said, “no can do, ma’am. That one’s not for sale.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, setting the caps down with a clink.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” the slaver forced himself to say, staring at the caps longingly. “He’s one of the boss’. Can’t sell him.”

“What if I talked to him myself?” she pressed. “I’m sure he’ll be reasonable.”

“You can try,” he shrugged. “Don’t think you’ll get a too different response.”

Crossing her arms, Marcy asked, “what’s so special about this one?”

“Could ask you the same, sweetcheeks,” he smirked, not even glancing at Roland as he shifted closer.

Catching herself before she stuttered, Marcy said, “I need something with a drive to live, I’m tired of buying more and more workers.”

“Sounds like you got some project goin’ on,” he observed, leaning forward. “That makes two of us.” Letting the sinister sounding words hang in the air for a moment, the slaver looks at a beat up clock on the wall and suggested, “why don’t we show you why we’s so keen on keepin’ that one.”

Snatching back the bag of caps before the slaver could grab them, Marcy hesitantly followed him back out into the hall, fortunately away from the holding cells this time. He continued to make advances on Marcy, gradually moving closer to her until she was walking against the wall. She began wishing Roland would do something more than glower at the skeevy man, though he didn’t seem to care at all about the ghoul that could easily snap him in two. They soon entered a large room resembling a makeshift auditorium, complete with assorted theatre seats and a rickety looking stage. Though Marcy attempted to break away from the man in the open area, he stayed right by her, leading her towards a few seats. Before Marcy could take her seat, however, Roland sat in between them, leaning forward so as to block the slaver. The short man from the hall before recognized the ghoul from the other side of the rat like slaver, immediately getting up and practically sprinting away. Despite Roland’s intimidating appearance and efforts, Marcy found an arm around her her shoulders just as a few collared ghouls began rushing up on stage. Looking over, she found Wrought Iron grinning at her, gesturing up to the stage with a jerk of his head.

“Good to see you could make the show,” he said with an air that attempted to cloud the connotations of this _show_. “Not a whole lot stick around long enough. A real shame. Here come the jugglers!”

Tightly clasping her hands to keep from shuddering, Marcy watched as three ghouls walked out on stage, one with eyes as wide as saucers carrying an ancient looking frag grenade. Without a second’s hesitation, two situated themselves on either side of the one holding the grenade, both simultaneously catching something thrown at them from the crowd and beginning the act. While the two moved expertly in time with the other, tossing the objects back and forth a few times, Marcy kept getting distracted by something glinting in the light by the wide eyed ghoul. As both objects were tossed towards him and added to the figure eight, she identified it as a wire attached to the grenade, no doubt tied to the pin. She felt a pit open up in her stomach as more and more objects were added to the ghoul’s show, increasingly awkward and dangerous, the handle of an old umbrella being among them. Even still, the ghoul kept his pace, watching various things in the shuffle as close as he could, not once missing a beat. Once Wrought Iron threw in his gun, however, the entire rhythm was thrown off, a hook with a pole catching on the grenades wire. As the live grenade rolled to the floor, the two other ghouls dove for cover, the one that had dropped it frozen in fear and staring with somehow even wider eyes. After an incredibly painful few seconds, Wrought Iron burst out laughing, leading the others in the crowd in a chorus of sharp biting sounds. A look of realization flashed across the poor bastard’s face, and he lurched forward, out cold before he even hit the wooden stage. Marcy forced herself to keep her eyes on the stage as the two ghouls carried the other away, disappearing behind a tattered curtain framing the hunk of wood. She could tell this was going to be a long night.

 

Having been watching the sick game from just off stage, Frank grimaced as the poor kid was carried off to the other side of the stage. He briefly thought about what might have happened had the grenade been real, how it would be worth it to wipe out at least a large portion of the disgusting hyenas watching and waiting for them to make just one wrong move. He sighed and let the thought trail away, turning back towards the other ghouls waiting backstage. He forced a smile as a singular small ghoul shuffled towards the stage, patting her shoulder reassuringly.

“Be careful,” he said, letting his hand rest there for a moment until she moved away.

He could at least be grateful he’d made relative peace with the other slaves. Had it been in different circumstances, he may have even valued some of the connections above a matter of survival. He wasn’t there to put any of them down, but he certainly didn’t care about making any friends. So long as he didn’t have to worry about a second wall of thorns. He looked back at the others, grimacing slightly as he heard another round of raucous laughter. Again and again, the cycle repeated itself, until finally just he and a few others were left. Picking up the guitar leaning against the wall and strapping it to his shoulder, he helps the others wheel the old tack piano out on stage for another round of dancing monkey, a loud cheer erupting from the crowd. Checking the guitar and nodding towards the ghouls as they hold up instruments, Frank takes the auxiliary cord from another and plugs it into the amp at the front of the stage that miraculously hadn’t burst into flames yet. There’s always hope for this time.

“Play that one with the bird!” someone shouted, Frank barely managing to not roll his eyes.

“Do Sinatra!” another demanded.

Ignoring them, Frank began his usual warm up of some old Waits song. Fortunately, they always seemed to eat it up, giving his makeshift band time to smooth out any kinks. Maybe it played to their childish mindsets, or their denial of responsibility, who knows. Frank wasn’t a shrink. Just some sorry bastard with skills well beyond what he deserved. He moved on to a few more songs, each as loud as the last, until he was stopped. Thankfully before the bandages on his fingers tore completely off.

“Hold on a second,” Wrought Iron said. “Don’t you think we should give our guest here a special little serenade? You know a lotta girl songs, right?”

Frank glanced at the woman under the brute’s arm, looking as uncomfortable as the entire stage felt. He nodded, readjusting his grip on the neck of the guitar.

“How ‘bout you sing her a song just for her, huh?” Wrought Iron continued. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

A hint of hesitation in her voice, she said, “Marcy.”

“You heard her,” Wrought Iron called.

Restraining an exasperated sigh, Frank dug through his memory for the old seldom remembered Chuck E. Weiss tune as he handed the guitar off and sat at the piano. God knows he never spoke Louisiana Creole, but he knew enough French to improvise lyrics that sounded close enough and, more importantly, were things he knew he was saying. No one would know the song, anyhow. He purposefully over exaggerates the accent- best to keep them entertained- as he played, fighting past the collar restricting his voice.

As Frank let the notes trail off at the end of the song, backed by a chorus of supporting hoots, Wrought Iron said, “you can’t be done already.”

Hanging his head slightly, Frank started the song over again, fighting with the collar. By the fifth or sixth time around, he began to lose his voice, starting to choke the words out more than singing. Sometime during the 12th forced encore, the woman and her slave must have left, by which time Frank’s voice was completely shot to hell. He didn’t blame them, sure as hell would’ve done the same. That doesn’t lessen the sting of the electricity surging through him suddenly, Wrought Iron raving about something like losing business. It’s always hard to tell over his own screams.


	3. Chapter 3

Pacing back and forth, Marcy said, “we have to do _something_. They’re going to wind up killing all of them if we don’t.”

“I understand your concern,” Leopold patiently countered, “but action without a plan will no doubt lead us to our untimely destruction alongside the captives.”

“Here’s a plan,” a man with many scars twirling a knife interjected. “We go in, take care of the bastards, get everybody out, and torch the fuckin’ place.”

“Not everything can be solved with arson and copious amounts of violence, Blade,” Leopold chided.

Jumping in, and inadvertently stopping the argument before it broke out, Jude suggested, “what if we just sneak in?”

Everyone stared at him for a moment, utter silence washing over them. Glancing at Marcy and another ghoul named Orion, Roland nodded with a slight smirk, both nodding in agreement.

Staring at the three of them in morbid astonishment, Leopold asked, “are you serious? You can _not_ be serious.” With no hint of faltering in their resolves, he rubbed his forehead, muttering, “of course you’re serious…”

 

Creeping down the cramped under used maintenance tunnel, the sound of the building’s inhabitants trudging around above the troop’s heads was perfect cover as they diverged into the ductworks. Emerging through a large vent in the wall towards the ceiling of the dimly lit cell block, Roland and Orion helped the others down without making a sound, dispersing as soon as their allotted teams hit the concrete. Orion covered Jude as he dealt with the locks, Malachy nearby dealing with an alarm system on the metal door leading out into a deeper part of the basement. Roland and Blade stayed by the great metal doors leading into the room, weapons drawn at the ready. Marcy and Leopold corralled the freed prisoners in the narrow hall between the cells, trying to keep them all quiet and calm. Watching him slink through the crowd, Marcy briefly made eye contact with the ghoul with the funny scar that had been on stage, the one that had made an escape attempt not even a day before, until he disappeared behind a trio holding onto each other.

Delicately moving a wire with a pair of tweezers, Malachy nearly pulled it out of the module, a hand resting on his shoulder and a voice saying, “yer gonna fuck it up, kid.”

Whipping his head around to stare wide eyed at a stranger, he asked, “wh-what?”

“That ain’t the wire you wanna be pullin’ on,” the ghoul whispered. “The blue one.”

“I-I- I don’t think you should be up here, sir,” Malachy stuttered.

“What, and sit on my fucking hands?” the ghoul snapped. “You’re not even usin’ the right- For fuck’s sake…”

“I-I’m sorry?” Malachy asked.

“Just- Give ‘em to me,” he ordered, attempting to take the tweezers.

“Sir, please, I need you to step away-” Malachy tried to argue.

“I been in here for months, and there’s people in here that’s been trapped for _years_ ,” the ghoul growled. “I ain’t lettin’ some kid fuck up a good chance to get everyone out, now- Move over!”

Fighting with the ghoul, Malachy pulled the tweezers back, the commotion startling the prisoners around them. In turn, Orion noticed Malachy struggling, wading through the crowd over to them.

Pulling the unidentified ghoul by the arm, he bluntly ordered, “let go.”

When the ghoul didn’t listen, Orion tightened his grip, though he didn’t have time to make another order. Teeth dug into his fingers, drawing blood and causing Orion to pull his hand back. Swearing under his breath, he turned his plasma rifle on the prisoner, who reflexively swatted the weapon away. He unintentionally pulled Malachy’s arm in the process, causing him to tug a wire. Immediately, a shrieking siren began alarming, the prisoners panicking at the sound. Orion being swept away in the sea of bodies, the other ghoul pushed Malachy out of the way, snatching the tweezers and rapidly pulling and twisting at the jumble of wires. Reaching a point the tool could no longer help him, he threw them over the crowd, swearing under his breath as he instead used his fingers to hold two wires together, the smell of burning skin wafting through the tight space as they sparked. Connecting the two to a third, the alarms died and a lock clicked, the ghoul pushing others out of the way as he grabbed the door handle.

Turning and pushing the metal, he began shoving those at arm’s length through the door, shouting, “go! Move!”

Leaving the door to be handled by the stampeding prisoners, he ran against the flow, picking people up and sending them on their way. By the time the others got over their shock and started helping, an explosion from down the line startled all of them, prisoners towards the sound screaming. Just as another rang out, this time right next to Leopold, pieces of flesh splattering the unfortunate doctor, several slavers stormed in through the wide doors at the other end of the hall.

With no time to spend in shock at the ghoul decapitated via explosive collar being trampled by their kin, Marcy shouted, “get the controllers!”

Barely hearing her over the sounds of more explosions, Jude sprang out from his place by a cell, driving the pin he’d used on the locks into a slaver’s eye and swiping the remote in his hand. Malachy and Roland followed suit, the latter grabbing two nearby and slamming their heads together. Orion shot a few with his laser pistol, Blade catching one attempting to stab Marcy and throwing him against the bars of a cell. Leopold lead the congregation further into the basement, appearing to be more of an old mine shaft than apart of the building.

Running up beside him, catching a young ghoul as he slipped, the prisoner that had opened the door shouted, “I hope you got a plan.”

“If we do, I never got the memo,” Leopold answered.

“Are you serious?” he asked incredulously.

“I’ve asked the same thing far too often,” Leopold answered.

Helping an older ghoul keep her footing, Frank shouted, “I think there’s a tunnel that heads topside a ways up. Leads up to an old farm, from what I heard. Assuming they don’t bring the whole damn thing down before we-”

As if on cue, bullets flew directly over their heads, causing the other ghoul to stumble and narrowly avoid running into Leopold. The sound of shouting behind them lead the ghoul to look at Leopold before slowing down, lagging behind and passing along the plan. Before too long, Roland shouted from ahead of them, standing in the path and directing them all towards a cut in the wall, narrowing as it lead upwards. Beams above them creaking, the runners readily took the detour, the slavers continuing to shoot at the wood and metal above their heads. Having stopped to direct the crowd from further down, Marcy glanced up at the beams a moment too late to move as the metal split, collapsing over her. A long piece of metal caught her in the stomach, impaling her and sticking into the ground. She soon found the ghoul with the scar by her side, trying to help her off the rebar. Glancing at the ceiling above them, Marcy suddenly shoved him away, stone crushing her not a second later, catching his arm in the process. His breath stolen from his lungs, the only sound he could make was a small wheeze, staring at where the stranger that had tried to help him had just been. He didn’t even register people in his peripheral moving the stone and hands grabbing him until he was slung over a shoulder, even then only a vague sense of movement piercing the haze that had overtaken him. It was short lived, however, as a horrible pain set in his arm, a small shriek escaping his throat as he clutched his elbow. From there, it was only brief whirling visions of motion as the pain over took him.

 

Wrapping a makeshift cast around the arm of the other ghoul, whom he learned to be named Frank, Leopold shook his head and muttered under his breath. Grabbing another long strip of cloth, he wrapped it around Frank’s forearm before tying the ends behind his neck, effectively strapping the limb to his chest. Spotting Roland from the corner of his eye, Leopold quickly looked away, standing up without a word and migrating towards another injured ghoul.

Looking over the people in the small congregation of wounded, Roland asked, “did any of you see Marcy?”

Malachy looked over at Jude, who frowned and turned away. Watching the small exchange, Roland grimaced slightly, gazing at them all silently.

Hanging his head with a sigh, Leopold gently said, “she didn’t make it out.”

Furrowing his brow and blinking, Roland asked, “what?”

“She never made it out,” Leopold repeated, neglecting some of the facts.

For a tense moment, Roland stared at Leopold without really seeing him, his eyes looking past him into nothingness. Then they shift to Frank, sitting with an elbow on his knee, a sudden venom turning them hard and cold.

“You,” he growled simply.

Glancing at him with a sharp glare, Frank grunted and kicked at a small rock at his feet, avoiding eye contact.

“This is your fault,” Roland accused.

“Oh, sure,” Frank grumbled. “All accordin’ to plan. First the girl, then her skinned gorilla.”

“You little-” Too quick for anyone to stop him, Roland threw a punch at Frank, colliding with his jaw with a loud crack.

Falling back off the bench he was sitting on, Frank attempted to catch himself with his bad arm, effectively falling on his head. Sitting up, he glared at Roland, blood beginning to well up on his lip.

Wiping the red liquid from his mouth, Frank said, “bet you enjoy kickin’ a man that’s down, don’t y-”

This time when Roland tried to punch him, Frank grabbed his wrist and kicked his leg. In retaliation, Roland grabbed Frank’s makeshift sling and pulled his wrist free, throwing him to the ground. Frank took the opportunity to elbow Roland in the gut as he went down, the fight quickly devolving from there. Orion and Blade managed to pull Roland back, Leopold rushing in between the two shouting ghouls.

“Quiet, both of you!” Leopold ordered. Helping Frank up, he continued, “you’re acting like children.”

Rather than reply to him, Roland instead pulled his arm free and shoved Orion off of him, storming away from the group. Leopold sighed and lead Frank away, until he too pushed him off.

Halfheartedly attempting to stop him, Leopold put a hand on his shoulder and asked, “where do you think you’re going?”

Shrugging him off and not looking back, Frank snarked, “eventually, Hell. For now, wherever’s the closest I can get somethin’ strong.”

“You could at least let me send you off with some supplies,” Leopold argued bitterly.

“Not a chance,” Frank grumbled.

Watching him amble off away from the camp, Leopold shook his head again, turning away to look for Roland. Something told him there wasn’t much he could do for that one, too stubborn to accept any kind of help. Not that he’d need it.


End file.
